A Dream

January 1, 2008
By Victoria Yee, Wesminster, CA

I wake and in my arms is a beautiful baby boy wrapped in soft fabric. He smiles at me with that infinite adoration and trust only very young children can give. Instinctively, I snuggle him close to my body and smile back. He coos happily.

I've never been completely comfortable around babies and don't intend to have my own, but I immediately connect with the baby boy.

Happy that he's happy, I look around. And excuse the pun, but I realize that I'm not in the OC anymore. I'm in one of those massive, expensive, mansions one only sees from a car window when passing by extremely wealthy neighborhoods.

Beside me is an ornate, beautifully carved cello and an obviously very costly baby rocker. A piano melody whispers in the background that I'm so very, very familiar but just can't put my finger on. I stand abruptly and accidentally knock the cello sideways. It falls strings down and makes a twisted, muffled sound.

But before I can pick the cello up, a man in a suit whose face I cannot see grabs the neck and sets it on a rack I hadn't noticed before. Somehow, in the depths of my heart I feel hurt, anger, and betrayal towards the man. I rock the baby nervously, desperately, for I realize that:

The man is having an affair.

The man is my husband.

The baby boy is mine.

"Take care of our boy," he mumbles as he tries to kiss me on the cheek.

I turn away and he leaves me alone with the baby wriggling in my arms, grasping towards the cello's direction.

At a loss for words and actions, I follow the urgent demands of the child and walk towards the cello rack. I lift the cello and its bow. Mechanically, I follow the sound of the piano melody of which I'm so very, very familiar but just can't put my finger on.

Somehow, I reach the piano. The music stops. My breath stops.

The piano is the most amazing I've ever seen. Jet black with ivory keys. A work of art from a painting. Hesitantly, I sit on the bench and the baby boy crawls out of my arms and lifts the cello and its bow.

He plays the first measure of the strange melody and waits, expectantly.

I press my fingers to the keys,

But to my bewilderment, there is no sound.

I only hear the slam of the door from the departure of my adulterous husband.

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